


Encrypted Signals

by hellkitty



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7399762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy Carter prepares for a mission to aid the Resistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Encrypted Signals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Impala_Chick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Chick/gifts).



 

“You going to, uh, be all right in here?” Steve Rogers glanced around the room--well, most of a room--warily. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, his knapsack down the hall in the next classroom--one bombed out of a roof, where the men would be setting up camp.  It was an old schoolhouse, it seemed, wooden desks piled against the far wall, and black slate prominent between the windows.  A small hill of tins marked that this place had been used, fairly recently, as a bivouac by troops. Well, the tins, and the smell: that stale smell of old urine and sweat. 

 

“I’ll be fine,” Peggy said, trying to arrange her overcoat into something that looked invitingly bed-like.  He didn’t look convinced, either with her coat wrangling or her words, “Really, I will.” 

 

“I don’t like you being out in the field like this.”  

 

Well, that part was obvious, what with the way he’d kept her in the center of his little troupe of commandos the whole trip up here.  “Captain Rogers,” she said, drawing herself up. “I can handle myself, you do realize.”  

 

“I know,” he said, hastily--rather too hastily to be truthful. “It’s just that--”

 

It had been a long day--up far before dawn, and off the vehicle and on foot by daybreak--and Peggy was tired, and really not in the mood to have her competence questioned.  Again. “Nouvion is an important link in our intelligence network. They need the newest encryption key.”  She knew he knew the mission details, but, well, men. Apparently they needed to be reminded of things.  The Resistance reported that an encrypted radio had been compromised at Crecy a week ago, and communications had fallen silent from the entire arrondissement since.  At best, the Resistance had realized the loss and had kept themselves suitably mum and safe. At worst, well...that’s why the SSR had sent the Howling Commandos with her.  

 

“But I could go--”

 

“You?” It was hard--and honestly, she didn’t exert that much effort trying--to keep the rising pitch of incredulity out of her voice. “I’m sorry, Captain Rogers, but I simply don’t think you’re cut out for undercover work.”  There was the size of him, for one matter. And his unforgettable looks. And the fact she didn’t really need confirmed that his French accent was probably atrocious, like all his American cohorts.  

 

“But you are?” 

 

Oh, so this was a fight, was it? “I am, in fact.” She turned back to tugging her coat into some sort of shape on the wooden floor. “I have had extensive training. I speak French. And,” she said, turning back around to face him, “I am a woman.” 

  
“What’s that got to do with it? D-doggone it, Carter,  I’d be just as worried if you were a man, going alone into a Nazi-held village.”  Commendably, and even possibly true. “How do you know the papers will pass inspection?” 

 

He much preferred his--and his Commandos’--way of doing things: crash in, guns blazing, like some American Western film.  

 

“Because they will. Because I have faith in our forgers, Captain Rogers.”  A few had been quite successful in the world of art forgery before the war effort awakened some spectre of patriotism (or hope of a pardon) in them.  They knew, if nothing else, that tipping the hand to the Nazis would not end well for them.  

 

He gave one of those aggrieved sighs, helpless and frustrated, spinning in a slow circle around the room, as though searching for inspiration. “So what was all that, about being a woman?”

 

Was he really that thick?  “Who would be less conspicuous in an occupied town? A man of military age, in fit fighting condition, or…” she gestured at herself.  

 

“Oh.” 

 

Oh, indeed.  “I promise, I will be in and out as fast as I can--without alerting suspicions.”  It was a simple enough task--install the new encryption key, hand over the new code notebook, currently flattened out and tucked in a pocket in her knickers. The hardest part of the mission would be extracting that with her dignity intact, if you asked her.  “I appreciate the concern, truly I do,” and she found she did, rather more than she might care to admit.  

 

But anything else she, or he, might have said got blown to the winds by a soft rap at the door frame. It was one of the commandos, Dugan, giving a semi-respectful tip of his bowler. “Got yer Frenchie girl kit for t’morrer, Agent Pegs.” He held out a canvas sack. “Or, ‘jen fee’,” he added, proudly, and it took Peggy two full seconds before she realized he was attempting to say ‘jeune fille’.  “Ah, yes, quite,” she said, because, well, what else could one say in the circumstances. “I see you’ve been learning some French.” ‘Learning’ used very, very loosely.  

 

Dugan nodded, his face splitting into a grin. “Our Jacques’ been teachin’ me a bit. Guess he got tired of bein’ called a frog.” 

 

“I imagine so.”  She was honestly surprised Dernier hadn’t expressed his emotions with his fist, or his knife. It seemed almost magnanimous.  

 

“Yeah, he’s teachin’ me the good stuff. Know how to say ‘con de salopa--’” 

 

Steve cleared his throat. Loudly.  “That’s not the kind of language to use around a lady,” he said, sternly, face flushed almost crimson.  

 

Dugan looked honestly confused for a half a second, before breaking into a laugh. “Our Pegs can handle a few narsty words, I’m thinkin’.”  

 

“I can, thank you, Timothy.  But Captain Rogers does have a point.”

 

“Has sensitive ears, if ye ask me.” But Dugan shrugged in concession.  “Anyway, you’ll be lookin’ like a proper Frenchie lass in that. Jacques says it looks like somefin’ his auntie would wear.”  She wasn’t entirely sure that was a compliment, but at least it meant she’d look properly French.  Dugan jerked a thumb at his chest. “Was me that insisted on the beret.”  

 

“Ah, yes, well, thank you, Timothy. I’m sure it will bring me luck.” And a stereotype, but, well, now perhaps wasn’t the time. 

 

“Got some proper tea boilin’, if yer wantin’ some.”  

 

“I would.” And she would, indeed.  She’d been off base for less than a whole day, and already she was homesick for a proper cup. 

 

“Me or Falsworth’ll give you a knock when it’s ready. Even get you a cup, Captain.”  As though the height of generosity.  

 

She knew that Rogers was a coffee-man, himself. He and Barnes. Something they stuck to with the fixity--though they’d probably call it ‘gumption’--she’d come to associate with Americans. So she was surprised when he said, firmly, “Yes. Thanks,” to Dugan’s retreating back. 

 

Peggy dug into the bag--woolen stockings, a jumper, a long skirt, all with mends or patches or frays, and a pair of boots scuffed down to raw leather.  And the beret, of course, of thick, sturdy felt. They told a story--a young woman who’d been on the side of fashion, of chic, before the rationing happened.  It sent almost a chill up her spine--an omen of what Britain could be like, what it was already halfway becoming.  

 

Not if she could help it, she thought, pinching her mouth into a firm line, as she refolded the jumper. Which would, she figured, make as decent a pillow tonight as she was likely to get.  

 

“Hey. Uh. Agent Carter. Peggy.  Margaret.” She could almost see him, behind her back, pushing his helmet back on his head to give his scalp a good, confused scratch.  A sigh. “Look. I’m no good at this stuff. Not like, you know, Bucky or anything.”  

 

She said nothing, turning her attention to re-rolling the stockings.  

 

“He’s the one,” Rogers continued, “he’s always been good at talking to girls. I-I don’t think I ever even had a date he didn’t set up.” 

 

“Your loss, I should say,” Peggy said, holding the tweedy skirt in front of her.  Barnes was a good soldier, and, as far as she could tell, a wonderful friend to Rogers. But she didn’t care for the way he looked at her, or women in general.  

 

A scarf, in the bottom of the satchel.  She’d figure out what to do with that later. Maybe consult with Dernier later, to discover the proper French way of sporting it. 

 

“W-why?” 

 

“Because,” and she finally turned to look at him, putting the scarf down on her coat. “Sergeant Barnes views relationships with women as strictly short term.”  She’d seen the type.  Even her own brother Michael had had, well, she would call it a ‘phase’.  Barnes seemed stuck in that phase.  Which was fine, but she was not interested in that. Nor him. 

 

“That’s not what I want.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, colliding with each other in their haste.  “I just...look. I don’t even know what to call you!”  He spread his hands, helpless.  “And I hate it when you get all ‘Captain Rogers’ on me.” 

 

“Oh? And what should I call you, then?”

 

“Steve? And I could call you--”

 

“Agent Carter,” she said, tartly, holding the expression just long enough to watch his face fall. “But only in front of the men,” she relented.  “Alone, you can--if you like--call me Peggy.”  Her brother had called her that, and it always made her feel at home.  And it was worth it for the way his blue eyes lit up. 

“I. Erm. I would like. That. I mean. Peggy.”  He half-stammered the words, face flushing again. A bit less red than before, when Dugan had been showing off his mastery of French invective; rather a more comely pink shade.  It quite suited him, she thought.  

 

“Quite,” she said. “Now, Steve Rogers,” she found she couldn’t say his Christian name without the surname, “I suggest we get a sip of proper British tea, before I get properly French.”  

 

“Not going to stop me from being ‘properly’ worried about you, tomorrow,” he retorted, trying, and failing, to pull off a scowl.  

 

“What’s that American expression? The moccasin is on the other foot?”  

 

“Shoe,” he corrected, absently.  “But it means…”

 

“It means that maybe, for once, you will be the one worrying about me.” Just a slight stress on the pronouns.  “Instead of the usual configuration.”

 

“You worry about...me?” The last word rose into something like a squeak.  

  
She turned on her heel, looking back over her shoulder, wordlessly, flashing her most enigmatic smile as she stepped into the hall.  


End file.
